


The Ringsmith

by LiliQ



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ainur - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Rings, Valinor, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliQ/pseuds/LiliQ
Summary: In happier times Mairon worked contently at his forge, but he knew his days in the Light of The Trees were numbered.





	1. A Pair

In the green fields beyond The Pastures of Yavanna lay a small house of wood and stone. In the shadow of the surrounding Pelóri mountains the house’s peaked roof released a pale grey smoke into the sky to join the clouds. Anyone looking on would see an idyllic little cottage basking here in the light of Aman. If they listened carefully they may even hear what sounded like the twinkle of a distant bell.

The sound got louder in the house’s interior. Before a great open fire stood a being, tall and stern of face. His attention focused on the great anvil beneath him. He raised his hammer high above his head and brought it down as gently as the leaves in autumn. Each tap brought forth a ting, like the ringing of a delicate bell. His work was slow, and intricate. Each tap barely touching metal.

The smith was not alone in the dark. With him was Eönwë, who stared at the forge with a mix of awe and pure fear. He would much rather be in the stone hewn Halls of Aluë, where the sound of forges clanging intermixed into an echoing music that the Ainur would dance and sing to. He instead was trapped in the smoke-filled gloom, with the lone ting of the forge. A single bell being rung to mark a death. The Maia could only wait. Wait for the Ring to be complete and to meet his fate.

His throat ached with the smoke. The sight of the single silver ring on the forge conjured all the grimmest images of possible futures. He had asked for this; he could just as easily ask the smith to stop, couldn’t he? No, he could not leave. This thought made it all the more painful. His bondage and impending doom were his fault. His own eagerness, his own stupidity had lead him here. From now on all his life would be ruination. For the first time, Eönwë The Herald of Manwë, greatest warrior of all the children of Ilúvatar truly felt the frozen grip of fear.

The smith’s attention was drawn away from his work. Almost as if he sensed the Eönwë’s anxiety. Their gazes met, and the flames dancing in the smith’s eyes extinguished all thought of escape. They locked eyes for a moment before the captor returned to his work. Inspecting the ring after every strike. His slender hammer hitting precisely the right spot. The Herald could barely see the ring, but the smith could make out each little imperfection and knew exactly how to fix them. He was a true master of his craft.

He would take short breaks from the hammer-work to envelop the ring in the flames. He used no tool for this, but simply took the silver band in his fist and lowered it into the raging flames of the forge. It hurt Eönwë to watch, but the smith’s face showed no pain. Save for the pain of an artist noticing a small defect in their masterpiece. This prompted the ring receiving another fire bath. 

He thought of Arien, and felt tears well up in his eyes. He drove her face and her smile from his mind. He tried not to think of her soft voice as she sang to him, or the way she laughed when he tried to imitate her. The thought of her scared him. Especially now, here of all places. He wept silently, as the image of Arien’s hair radiating with the golden light of the tree. The smith paid no mind to this, either not noticing, or simply not caring.

All he could do was to bury his head in his hands and try to drown out the forge’s trill. It was a mistake coming to Mairon The Ringsmith. He should never have left Ilmarin to seek this damned place. Yes, staying in those high vaulted halls would cause his heart to ache, but a little pain was bearable compared to the pressure that rose in his chest, and the numbness in his limbs as he waited for the Maia to finish.

His prayer was answered soon, as the hammer fell silent. He dared look up to see Mairon’s smile as he held the silver band up for inspection. The flames caught in its cold metal.

“Well Eönwë, we have a pair now.” The smith said, handing his fellow Maia the ring.   
Eönwë accepted the band into his palm, where he held its twin.

“Thank you friend, for this kindness.” Eönwë said fighting back tears. His stomach turned to serpents.

Mairon for the first time noticed how distressed his guest was. He sat down next to him. His slender arm reached around his shoulders.

“Eönwë, you know she will say yes, don’t you?”

Eönwë looked down at the rings.

“I am a fool. It is too soon to ask her; our courtship has not even seen a year’s end.”

“Eönwë, I have forged bands of betrothal in my little house, since our people made it west. I have seen betrothals occur after a week of courting. I’ve seen them occur when the couple had barely formed their Hröa. I have even seen them occur before I have had time to finish the damned rings. My friend, I have seen no two people as in love as you and Arien. She will say yes.”

Eönwë looked to his friend and merely nodded.

“Come now, in a year’s time you will be coming to me for rings of gold and thanking me at your wedding feast. At which point Arien will realise that I am comelier than a lowly Maia of Manwë, and begin a betrothal with the greatest of Aulë’s smiths right there in the feast hall.”

“Greatest smith? I don’t think we’ll be inviting Curumo.” A smile snuck onto Eönwë’s lips, as he wiped his tear slick cheeks.

Mairon’s eyes widened in faux-outrage. He rose clutching his chest as if he had been struck.  
“That whelp! He can barely forge a jewelled ring without the stone cracking! You dare utter his name within my abode! You know he has been attempting to copy my techniques, don’t you?”

The two laughed, all fear seemed to fade from Eönwë’s heart for a moment of joy, but it soon returned as the laughing died down.

“I am afraid Mairon. I can’t help but imagine all the ways she could say no.” said Eönwë.

“I shall suggest an arrangement then.” Mairon said as he took a sealed bottle down from the shelf.

“Old Vala wine. Pressed from grapes the Lady Yavanna herself grew in Almaren before that that business with Melkor. Not many bottles of it left I’m afraid.” Mairon handed the bottle over with reverence.

“By The One! I can’t take that!”

“You can, if you make a promise to me. You will present the ring to Arien and enjoy the wine as a betrothal gift from me. If in the extremely unlikely case she says no, you will return and we will enjoy it together. Either way you get good wine and a pretty face to look at.”  
Eönwë looked to Mairon and then to the bottle.

“Thank you, Mairon. You will sit at our table at the wedding feast.” Eönwë said as he hugged the smith.

“See how good a friend I am, even though you praised Curumo beneath my roof? I swear the day people go to him for metalwork instead of me is the day I turn all my rings into a great chain to lock you all in your houses. Obviously, you’d have all gone mad, and locking you up would be a mercy.”

“That’ll be the day the Valar lock you up with Melkor to teach you a bit of humility”  
“Then let us both pray that day never comes.” Mairon smiled easily and warmly at the Maia.  
The two bid farewell, and Mairon promised to meet him later after he tidied the workshop. He watched Eönwë make his way to towering Taniquetil. The mountain loomed on the horizon. It quite spoiled the scenic landscape thought Mairon, but who was he to argue with the King of the Valar.

Besides, Mairon soon remedied the issue, by shutting his door. The house was darkened once again. 

Mairon didn’t open his windows often, and especially not when he was working. He needed to breath the smoke to know what the forge wanted. He needed to feel the dry heat on his skin, and to look into the inferno or embers as he hammered away. There was beauty in the ash. He would make all of Arda into a forge if he had more of a say in it. The simplicity of it was much more manageable than the chaos of Yavanna’s forests. 

He never quite understood that one. After all, old Aulë had done such a good job with the stone. Good and strong, with a stark elegance to it. Some of Mairon’s fondest memories were him helping to lay out the ore into the mountains, and carving out canyons with his master. Then the love drunk old fool went and let Her cover it in that soft green stuff. 

Always dying, and decaying, and birthing itself anew. Disgusting when you thought about it. Nothing constant, just this great ugly cycle of rot and fornication.

It was not pleasant to dwell on. Besides there were much more important matters to consider.

The Valar had called a council with their Maiar to discuss the “Melkor Situation”. Mairon did hate this talk of conflict, and the possibility of an assault on Middle-Earth troubled him greatly. He was strong of body yes, and his Fëa was among the most powerful of all the Ainur, save the Valar themselves. It was just the idea of fighting that turned his stomach. His beautiful form that he spent so long perfecting could be damaged, or even destroyed. All that work wasted, and worse, he could be left a Houseless Spirit. 

He still remembered the last war with Melkor. The land was barren, save for the fallen bodies of Ainur that lay bloodied on the grey stone. Mairon knew they lived on in Fëa form but the hewn corpses still haunted him. Not just those of his fellow Maiar, but those twisted things of flame and shadow, that those who were loyal to Melkor wore.

He remembered towards the end of the war, when he lay wounded, ready to release himself and return home, when he heard a voice ask if he was alright.

A deep voice that was both a peal of thunder and a gentle summer breeze. It had power, and strength, but at the same time was warm and caring. The voice spoke of things that Mairon knew in his heart to be true, but dared not say. It told him secrets about the world, and the true nature of The One. The voice scared him, it still does to be truthful, but he yearned to hear more. He needed to hear it again, but he wasn’t sure if he could do what he needed to hear it.

He thought of a joke the voice made about Manwë and how deep shame came over Mairon as he laughed at it. It was blasphemy, besides Manwë was a noble king, and it unfair to say what the voice said. 

In his workshop Mairon felt a smirk creep on his face when the memory of the joke came to him. In turn he thought on Eönwë’s jest about the cell. The cell that Melkor the traitor will be placed when captured.

When.

When the Hosts of The West march into Utumno and cleanse those putrid halls of Melkor’s blasphemies and drag him and his underlings before the Valar for judgement. 

The smirk was gone. He sat in the dark room of his workshop, with images of what could come to pass. Occasionally he lent over the dimming forge and moved the ash about with his hand. He watched the glow return to the embers, and enjoyed the heat on his hands. He was still, as was the world. No noise but his breathing. Just the void and his forge. He thought again on a world of stone and ash. How simple everything would be. No fighting, no decay, no choices to make.

No Eönwë. No Arien.

Just Mairon.

King Mairon, of the ashes.

Alone.


	2. A Guest

The knock at the door did not startle Mairon, so much as it shook his mind free of its wanderings. When the door opened without his permission being given, he knew who it was.

In the dying light of the forge Mairon felt comfortable and secure in the mingling of embers and shadows, but the open door brought the full light of Laurelin into his home. He felt the back of his eyes sting before they adjusted to the golden light.

“Mairon, I came by to see if you were ready for the meeting.” Said the visitor. A slender frame with piercing silver eyes, they looked every bit as elegant as any piece of jewellery Mairon could forge.

“Curumo, please come in. I was merely gathering my thoughts before we must be off to sort this grim business.” Mairon spoke warmly to his guest and rose to greet him, his eyes still half shut from the glare.

“Please be seated. I will be ready in a moment, brother.” Said Mairon. With a motion of his hand, he drew heat of the forge, and it grew cold and the soft glow died. As he gathered his tools he noticed Curumo shifting, uneasily in his seat.

Curumo was no more his brother than any other Ainu, but they were both students of Aluë which was the closest the Maiar got to siblings. Truth be told, there was a sort of bond between the fellow students. After all, working together to carve out the highest mountains at the edge of Arda and hollowing the deepest caves in the dark low places where the shadows whisper were experiences that couldn’t be shared with anyone else.

It was a shame that Mairon did not care for Curumo. True, he was a fine smith and dedicated student, but he was just so sure of himself for someone so young. Relatively speaking. What really annoyed Mairon, was that Curumo had not earned his skill. He merely copied the designs and techniques of the higher ranking Maiar, Mairon included. True, it was Mairon’s duty to teach the lesser Ainur, and the Firstborn when time came, but Curumo didn’t learn he merely copied. It was enraged Mairon in his own quiet way. It was not the time or place to lose his temper with his guest, who hadn’t really done anything wrong. He just squirmed on his stool across the room.

Now that was interesting. The lad had something on his mind. Something troubled him. If Mairon knew two things, it was firstly never settle for silver when you can have gold, and never settle for steel when you can have mithril; and secondly, you could never know too much about someone. Drawing out secrets was as natural was drawing out iron for the Maia. After all wasn’t that why he was still here?

“Curumo, you seem ill at ease. Please speak and let me share in your burden.” Mairon was sure to meet the lesser smith’s eye as he spoke. Curumo stopped shifting.

“It is nothing really brother, but do you think it would truly be the right thing to go to war with Melkor again?” Curumo said. He knew he wanted to avert his gaze, but he could not.

Now this was interesting. Such a provocative question, and he asked it so easily. Could it be he came here to confide in Mairon? Well if he must play the concerned mentor then so be it. Mairon had nearly finished organising his tools, when he began to walk over to his brother. He knew it was a delicate question, and it required a delicate touch.

“Well dear brother, that is what the Valar seem to be leaning towards. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if this council was merely to get us together to make a formal declaration of war.” Mairon spoke easily, and drew a stool up facing Curumo. His words and motions fluid, their faces close.

“Why do you ask? Does this talk of fighting trouble you? It certainly weighs on my mind.” Mairon’s words were woven with worry for his young friend. He did not possess the talent for speaking charms secretly between sentences to ensnare a victim’s mind. He never needed them.

“Yes.” Said Curumo, his gaze still held. “I do not wish to see anymore war. Almaren was enough for me, I think.”

“It should have been enough for all of us brother. How many of the Úmaiar did we make Houseless? Our siblings are out there walking alone, refusing Mandos’call out of pure pride. Fading away slowly. It hurts to think on it.” Mairon’s voice grew low and thick with sorrow. His eyes watered and for a moment looked away, before meeting Curumo’s eye again. He could almost feel him jolt as the connection was re-established.

“True, it was awful. Though they did betray The One for the sake of Melkor, didn’t they?” Curumo’s voice had the slightest of trembles. Mairon knew this talk of the Houseless disturbed him.

“Does that mean they deserve their fate, to wander the world with no form? Never knowing the feel of the winds in their hair, or the light of the trees on their face? Never again to taste the sweet fruits of Yavanna’s bounty, or feel the touch of a beloved’s hand?” Mairon spoke with no more than a whisper, his words full of passion. He gripped Curumo’s hand as he drew in even closer. 

“Does Arda not have place enough for Melkor and his design? Would it truly be so bad to not have shunned him if it meant to avoid this guilt of fighting him?” Mairon’s grip tightened, hoping that it would draw some of Curumo’s focus. Drawing attention away from the implied heresy of his words. 

“Curumo, do you think what the Valar had us do in Erú’s name was wrong?” His words became gentle as though to hide the blasphemy. His amber eyes looked at his brother full of hurt and conflict.

Mairon looked into the eyes of his young student. He could just about feel his shallow breath on his face, and he knew the reverse was true for Curumo. He knew for this to work he had to hold his gaze. Though he could not weave magics in secret, he could something just as impressive. Though he didn’t know it, Curumo was losing a dance of minds. Mairon knew how to talk and how to be talked to. It had made him popular among the Maia Hosts, and soon it would let him know that if perhaps he was not alone in his qualms. That small wavering in his trust in the Valar’s wisdom was all Mairon needed to make him hope. 

When he thought of The Voice, he thought of truly how alone he felt. True, he had Eönwë, but despite his love for his friend, he feared rejection if he knew of Mairon’s doubts. Eönwë after all was perhaps the most trusted of all the Valar’s servants, whose duty it was to enforce their authority on any traitors or spies of The Enemy.

“That fate is not deserved by anyone.” Said Curumo. Mairon smiled. He was right that their fate was unjust. The fact that the Valar could be callus to their fellow Ainur, just for questioning their absentee father, filled Mairon with a fear and discomfort that seemed to be on his mind often lately.

“Though it was their choice to follow Melkor, and their fates are of their own making.” As Curumo spoke, Mairon could not but help feel disappointed. His hope of someone else to confide in was gone. 

“I wish the Valar needed us not to fight. Surely they could handle Melkor on their own, or beseech The One for assistance.” Curumo said. How naïve. The One would not help anyone. Mairon knew this well. He was content to watch his children quarrel and suffer, while congratulating himself for his broken world.

The briefest of hopes that he could become closer with Curumo dissipated like smoke. Mairon found that whereas before he had felt irate with his brother, he now felt hatred. Just pure disdain for his wide-eyed stupidity. For his unoriginality. For letting Mairon hope.

“Tell me, Curumo. When we fought Melkor before, did you ever encounter any of the Valaraukar?” Mairon said, the emotion had gone from his voice.

“No, I do think I did.” Said Curumo.

“Then you should ask The One to make sure you never do.” Mairon said. His face was placid, but behind his eyes there were memories of blood and heat, with a chorus of bestial howls. If he were alone, he would have allowed himself to weep.

“Let us not dwell on this no longer brother. I am sure that the Valar have thought of a solution already.” Mairon’s face had taken on all the warmth of summer as he rose quickly and went to the door. Curumo followed him, still a bit shaken from what had just happened.

“Mairon, are you quite alright? That all seemed a bit serious?” Curumo spoke, this time his eyes stung from the Tree Light that washed into the house.

“I am fine. It is just that if this does come to war, I wanted to be sure you knew of the sad truths of it.” Mairon grasped his brothers shoulder. His voice again growing low with concern.

“You do understand, don’t you?” 

Curumo nodded.

“Good. Then join me won’t you? I hope you will let me walk to the council with the finest of Aluë’s smiths?” Mairon said, his wide smile welcoming. 

“Oh, you flatter me brother. That would be ideal, I actually have a question about your method for the refining of mithril.” Curumo was cut off by a grinning Mairon, gesturing to the woods at the base of Taniquetil.

“Friend, let us not dwell on our labours, but instead enjoy the bounty of our master’s lady wife as we walk to Manwë’s halls.” Mairon said, setting the pace as he left the shop.

“Oh yes, the Lady Yavanna is unrivalled in the grace of her creations. I was fortunate enough to see one of her walking trees before she sent them across the sea.”

“Walking tree? Do they burn hotter in the forge that the ordinary kind?” Mairon said, he was only half-joking in truth. He did not want to startle Curumo, by coming right out with his true opinion on the green things. Especially after their talk in the workshop. 

It seemed to work as Curumo stifled a giggle, before turning red. Obviously unsure if it was heresy to laugh or not.

“I wouldn’t know if they would like being burnt.” He said.

“Curumo, the day people ask trees if they’d like to be burnt is the day I break my hammer upon my knee. Trust me when I say a tree’s best use is as fire wood. What else do they do but stand about, blocking my view?” Mairon said, gesturing to the forest they had passed into. He was sure to make note of any reaction Curumo made to the mention of burning trees.

“Well these ones are apparently meant to protect the non-walking trees.” Said Curumo. He did not look to Mairon, but instead at the forest itself. In the distance other Maiar could be seen making their way to the mountain.

“Whatever from? All the beasts of the forest obey her command. She need only speak and they will see no harm. Lest of course she thinks a few trees will stop Melkor’s wrath from burning her works to ash.” Mairon said. Again, being sure to gauge the young smith’s response. Though a part of Mairon did grow conflicted at the thought of a black and grey kingdom of soot. 

“She means to guard them from the small folk Aluë made. She said that unchecked they would kill the forests for firewood and carpentry. Perhaps, Aluë made them in the image of you? They apparently share your love of firewood.” Curumo said. This time he smiled at Marion, looking to the higher ranking Maiar for approval. Mairon did not smile back. His brow furrowed. 

“And Aluë just allowed this? His creation should be stifled because Yavanna worried her plants would be harmed?” Mairon had let a slight edge enter his voice. This seemed outrageous to him.

“Well brother she has a point. I am sure Aluë would create great walking mountains if Tulkas crafted a folk that made sport of smashing stone.” Curumo said with a smile. He did not pick up on Mairon’s distaste.

“That is the real issue, isn’t it? We cannot agree on what is best for the world, so we bicker. Aluë’s folk need the trees for their craft, but Yavanna brings about these walking trees to hinder them. We agree it best to leave the east well enough alone, yet Ulmo still wanders the rivers and lakes. Without strength through unity how do they hope to vanquish Melkor and his legions?” Mairon let some outrage seep into his voice again. This time though it was purely manufactured. An illusion of emotion that lent great passion to his words.

A lull came after Mairon’s speech. Their walk through the forests for the most part was pleasant. The shade and gentle breeze swept through the foliage. The earthen scent of the forest filled the air. Crisp and omnipresent as the bird song, and the tension as Curumo thought on what he should say.

“That does make sense. To fight the shadow we must not bicker over who gets a say, but instead come together under a single banner? Meaning the Valar should not concern themselves over the trees or the land, until Melkor is bound.” Curumo said at last, having thought carefully about his answer.

“Close my friend. Would it not be better for a single ruler? One who can act swiftly without committee, and has the freedom to shape the world to their vision?” Mairon said. He had to admit, although Curumo was an irritating little whelp, how he looked to Mairon for approval was very endearing.

“Who would this single leader be?” asked Curumo.

“That I do not know. It is but a thought, pay it no mind. We are here.” 

They stood at a clearing at the mountains base. There was another Maia there, Ossë one of Ulmo’s fellows. Quite the temper if rumour was to be believed. He wore a taller and more muscular form than most Maiar, who typically preferred more slender and delicate bodies. He nodded towards Mairon and Curumo in greeting but made no attempts to approach them. 

They just needed to wait for a lift now. In the silence of the forest Mairon thought on his young companion, and a wave of worry came upon him. He did not wish for Curumo to face the choice he would soon have to. The secret that he dared not even hint at would no doubt claim him soon, but he wanted to know the young smith would be alright. Despite the fact he was a plagiarising cur. He drew Curumo close to whisper to him. 

“Curumo, before we ascend I would like to give you some advice. You must never utter a word of what you asked me in the workshop ever again. You keep your doubts close to your chest, for if you enjoy your life of study and contentment, they must never know how you feel. Hide them so deep that you yourself do not even know your own heart. Perhaps then you can live at peace in their lands.” Spoke Mairon.

Before Curumo could reply a great shadow came over them. The Eagle had arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> My first work on here, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I incorporated the relationship between Arien and Eönwë from an earlier draft of the Silmarillion, as well as applied some of the marriage traditions of the Noldor in the case of the silver and gold rings. My reasoning being that the Noldor probably adopted some of the Maiar practices and ceremonies when they came west.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edit: Fixed some spelling and grammer


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